


Evil Magisters and Southern Barbarians

by tristinai



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dorian's an obnoxious flirt, M/M, Mentions of Alistair - Freeform, Pre-Blight, Templar!Cullen, Unlikely companionship, Unresolved Sexual Tension, anti-mage attitude, apostate!Dorian, cullrian - Freeform, necromancer!Dorian (ftw), some racist/xenophobic attitudes towards mages and Vints
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-18
Updated: 2017-09-18
Packaged: 2018-12-31 06:12:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12126279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tristinai/pseuds/tristinai
Summary: When Cullen is sent outside of Kinloch Hold to investigate apostate activity in Amaranthine, he gets more than he bargained for when he meets a rather handsome and obnoxious mage who only barely cooperates with his captors. (templar!Cullen/apostate!Dorian)





	Evil Magisters and Southern Barbarians

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Day 7 challenge Noodle Soup for Cullen Appreciation Week. This is a canon-divergent verse, pre-Blight, that still assumes the events from DAO to DAI will occur, with the following exception:
> 
> Dorian does not receive Alexius’ patronage, thus forcing his father’s hand significantly earlier in his life than in established canon
> 
> Other alterations in the time line occur as a result of having Dorian flee to Fereldan and living as an apostate. Since both Cullen and Dorian are younger in this, their personalities reflect their experiences (or lack of) and may differ from the characters we came to know and love in Inquisition. 
> 
> At this point, I'd like to issue a sincere apology to any French speakers who may be reading this: I am fairly certain I have horribly butchered the language in an attempt to make Orlesian sound sexy. Feel free to offer any corrections/suggestions if you find the use of French in this fic particularly cringe-worthy. 
> 
> I'd also like to apologize for any grammatical errors. I am without a beta-reader and try my best but there may be a few things I have missed. Any and all errors are my own.
> 
> Please be sure to check the tags before continuing. Happy reading to everyone!

_9:29 Dragon_

 

Sparks burst on the ground in front of him, forcing Cullen to come to an abrupt halt. His armor clanked loudly, sword nearly slipping from his grip as he stared at the apostate they had cornered in the forest, the mage's gray eyes narrowed and his handsome face contorted in a vicious scowl. With his back to a tree, there was no escape, yet he remained ever uncooperative, his staff held before him, ready to cast.

 

But as Cullen inched closer, sword kept defensively at his side, he saw a flicker of panic on the young man's face.

 

_He's afraid,_ the templar realized, a sudden sting of guilt making him falter in his advance.

 

“Stay back!” the mage warned, his rich accent sounding clumsy as he spoke in the common Fereldan tongue. It would have made him less intimidating if the staff he held wasn't sparking with elemental magic.

 

With controlled calm in his voice, Cullen held up a gloved hand, indicating he meant no harm. For as much trouble as this mage had given them these past few days, as they tracked him from the dingy inn he had been staying at in Amaranthine and through the forest west of the city, he had yet to harm either of the templars pursuing him, only using his magic to escape. Now more than ever, the young templar hoped to de-escalate the situation and do what he had been trained to do: apprehend the apostate and bring him to Kinloch Hold. “Stand down and we won't hurt you.”

 

“Oh, I don't know about that,” another man said, his voice cold. “Don't go promising it anything, Rutherford. Take it down before it gets away again!”

 

The order was delivered with a cruel finality that left little room for question. Cullen knew he had to listen to his superior, Jansen, whose abrasive and detached demeanor could be unnerving, especially when the man spoke of the many maleficarum and apostates he had hunted. More often than not, when the Circle sent Jansen to investigate apostate activity, it ended with a dead mage, even if the apostate had no history of blood magic or violence. But few questioned his judgment and rumor had it that those bright eyed, idealistic recruits who crossed him often found themselves carrying out all sorts of unsavory tasks around the Hold if they so much as showed any insubordination to him.

 

He knew what he was being asked. Yet, when he looked at the mage, who seemed no older than himself, Cullen hesitated.

 

“Jansen, there's no need to—”

 

An odd, cold sensation washed over the templar, sword clattering loudly to the ground as he fell to his knees. His vision was swimming, the prickling that had started at the back of his head seeming to spread like wildfire through his veins. When he tried to stand, he was seized by panic, eyes widening and voice catching in his throat as spirits began to emerge from the forest floor, reaching for him, clawing at his armor. Blood chilled, heart pounding wildly in his chest, the screams of terror would not pass his lips and he clung desperately to his head, closing his eyes and willing the spirits to leave.

 

_By the Maker, make it stop!_

 

Distantly, he could hear someone shouting but it became white noise to the violent shrieking of the apparitions and he couldn't be sure if he was hearing it in his head or in the space around him.

 

A loud cry snapped him out of his panic and he remembered where he was and what he was doing.

 

_The apostate!_

 

The spirits around him seemed to fade, the conjured illusion clearing the air around him, like the dissipation of smoke as the embers of a once burning fire died. He blinked rapidly, struggling to regain his focus and saw where the cry had come from.

 

At the base of the tree lay the apostate, body shaking, curled up and clutching at his chest as if it was a struggle to breathe. And towering over him, with the mage's staff under his armored boot, was a rather smug looking Jansen, his sword raised, ready to deliver swift justice.

 

Shaking off the last of the horror spell that had been cast on him, Cullen threw himself forward before the templar could plunge his sword into the apostate.

 

“Jansen, stop!”

 

Jansen cursed loudly, stumbling back as he tried to redirect his swing. But the tip of the sword clipped across Cullen's upper lip, slicing up into his cheek. He grunted out in pain, the taste of copper falling thick on his tongue, but still he remained crouched by the mage on shaking legs, refusing to let Jansen kill the other man.

 

“Out of my way, recruit!”

 

Blood dripped down the young templar's chin, splattering onto his steel armor. But he remained defiant in his decision even as the older templar loomed over him, making no attempt at hiding his anger.

 

“He hasn't committed any offense and should be brought to the Circle,” Cullen said.

 

He'd like to think he sounded firm and decisive but even he could hear how his voice cracked beneath the livid expression on Jansen's face.

 

“Andraste's tits!” Jansen shouted at him. And Maker help him, the blasphemous curse made Cullen blush nearly as dark as the blood on his chin. “This _apostate_ attacked you with a bloody spell! Have you gone soft in the head?!”

 

Cullen actually had a response to that but then recalled the last time he had naively replied to one of Jansen's rhetorical insults. The back of his head still smarted from it.

 

“...um...it's not like—he didn't really hurt me—it was just—” Cullen babbled.

 

“You really want to drag it a week's march back to the Hold?”

 

That also sounded rhetorical.

 

Jansen waited, glaring murderously down at Cullen who, he had to admit, was starting to feel rather pathetic, shielding a mage who clearly didn't want to go to the Circle while bleeding from a cut on his face because he had to do something stupid like step in front of a swinging blade.

 

Maybe Branson had been right when he said their mother's cooking ladle was sharper than Cullen.

 

Jansen still hadn't said anything.

 

...was Cullen supposed to answer him?

 

“Um...yes?”

 

Jansen cursed loudly, stomping down on the staff and snapping it in half. In many ways, Cullen felt that his future career as a templar now had a lot in common with that broken weapon.

 

He yelped in surprise when the templar flung leather bindings at his chest. “Put these on it! And so help me, if _it_ gets away again, I'm killing it myself!”

 

Cullen muttered something along the lines of a 'thank you' but was too afraid to voice any gratitude loudly, not with the rage Jansen had worked himself into.

 

“And wipe yourself up. You look like an idiot.”

 

He had almost forgotten he was still bleeding.

 

Retrieving a cloth from his his satchel, Cullen winced as he pressed the off-white material to his face, smearing it with drops of crimson. He had no doubt that this wouldn't be his last injury in this line of duty but it will probably be the most needless, jumping recklessly in front of his superior's blade as he had. Details such as that were best omitted when he reported back to the Knight-Commander at the Circle.

 

The mage was still shaking from the smite that he had been struck with and offered little resistance as Cullen began binding the man's wrist. From the effect it had on the apostate, Cullen could guess that he had never been struck by it before and it didn't help that Jansen's smite, who had been with the order for more than 20 years, was known to pack quite the punch.

 

He tested the bindings, ensuring they were secure but not too tight. Out of the corner of his eye, he tried to get a glimpse of the man they had captured but the mage refused to look at him, shoulders slumped, staring into the ground beside them.

 

“He could have killed you.”

 

It was said so quietly, Cullen almost didn't catch it.

 

This time, when he looked up, he was surprised to see the mage staring at him, a quizzical expression on his face.

 

And...by the Maker, Cullen had never seen a man more beautiful. His face was smooth, skin the color of dark sand, unmarked but for a mole near the corner of his right eye. He had high cheek bones as sharp as an assassin's blade and the type of jaw one saw chiseled in the beautiful marble statues that lined the halls of an ostentatious Orlesian mansion. But even his beauty had nothing on the depths of gray that Cullen found himself drowning in, a sea of turmoil locked in a pair of striking eyes.

 

His throat dry, Cullen tried to speak but it came out as a half-cough. Given his proximity to the apostate, the other man crinkled his nose distastefully.

 

“I, uh, a-apologies,” Cullen said, clearing his throat once more.

 

Maker help him, was he always this useless around a pretty face?

 

If Amell's constant teasing of him was any indication, he was quite certain he already knew the answer to that.

 

He tried to think of how to respond, of what could both convey how he felt about the unnecessary killing of apostates and how this mage would be safe while within his charge.

 

Unfortunately, what he said came out a lot less heroic than it sounded in his head.

 

“I-I d-didn't...that is, I c-couldn't, uh, let him. Hurt you, that is.”

 

The apostate stared at him, long and hard, scrutinizing the templar with a furrowed brow, as if trying to solve a riddle that he had mulled over for some time. Cullen shifted uncomfortably, not only feeling picked apart but also straining to remain crouched while in his heavy armor.

 

After a long minute, the mage made an annoyed sound. “ _Fasta vass,_ you really are an idiot, aren't you?”

 

Cullen stared at the man in surprise.

 

Whatever he had expected the mage to say, it certainly hadn't been _that._

 

* * *

 

 

Having lost all interest in conversation, or perhaps deciding Cullen beneath his attention, the apostate fell into silence, refusing to answer any inquiries into his identity or about the state he was in (the former coming from the gruff Jansen, the latter a concerned Cullen). Though Cullen was put off by the rudeness he had been shown, he decided not to let it discourage him and continued to show great care in his handling of the captive, much to the irritation of Jansen.

 

“Maker's sake, get on with it, Rutherford!”

 

Cullen cringed visibly at the sharpness of Jansen's tone, looking apologetically as he once again crouched down by the mage. He was already hesitant to engage in the task the older templar had assigned to him but knew better than to question the order, especially after having defied Jansen earlier.

 

Removing his gloves, he reached for one of the apostate's exposed arms. The mage wore the most impractical of attire, numerous buckles adorning his outfit, dark leather hugging tightly to his tall, lean frame and accentuating parts of his body that had Cullen's eyes straying from the apostate's face. He knew he shouldn't have been gawking so much but in the short time of the mage's capture, Cullen had found it difficult to take his eyes off of the man.

 

When his fingers grazed over the naked flesh of the mage's forearm, Cullen drew in a sharp breath, the smooth skin hot beneath his touch. Blood filled his cheeks and for a moment, he could have sworn a spell must have been cast because, surely, that is not what touching someone's arm should feel like.

 

“Problem?”

 

He was surprised to hear that accented voice address him, given the captive's recent proclivity for haughty silence, its tone taking on a sultry note.

 

“I-I-I n-need your a-arm,” the templar stuttered.

 

He could have sworn he saw a quirk in the mage's lips, the apostate cocking a fine brow. “And what is it you _need_ my arm for?”

 

Andraste help him, there was something undeniably seductive in the way words dripped off the mage's tongue like silk. It had all sorts of thoughts spinning through Cullen's head as he began thinking of what that arm (or, more specifically, the hand attached to said arm) could be used for.

 

“I-I n-need t-t-to—”

 

“Maker's breath, we haven't got all day!”

 

Patience worn thin, Jansen pulled out his dagger and grabbed the mage roughly by his bindings. Before Cullen could think to intervene as he had earlier, the gruff templar made a shallow cut across the apostate's bicep, drawing blood.

 

“ _Vishante kaffas,_ what was that for?” the mage snapped.

 

“Oh, look. It's upset,” Jansen sneered. “Rutherford, the vial.”

 

Cullen fumbled with his traveling sack as he went to retrieve one of the glass containers, dropping the entirety of the bag's contents on the ground beside him. Jansen muttered under his breath, no doubt commenting on Cullen's latest display of carelessness, but the young templar did not let it deter him from following through with the order.

 

Bringing an empty vial to the cut on the apostate's arm, Cullen apologized as he squeezed around the wound to draw out more blood, the mage's hiss of pain making him feel guilty once again. Once he had filled the vial, he corked it.

 

“And what in Thedas do you plan on doing with my blood?” the apostate demanded.

 

With Cullen finished, the mage tugged his bound hands away, curling his body defensively as if he expected to be struck by the blade again.

 

“If you decide to get stupid and escape, we'll use this to find you,” Jansen said. Then, leaning in until he was practically nose-to-nose with the mage, he added, “And next time, I won't let this useless lout save your ungrateful arse.”

 

“...a phylactery,” the mage murmured, the revelation causing him to frown. “And I thought templars stopped blood magic. I had no idea you also dabble in it.”

 

The absolute disgust on the mage's face surprised even Cullen. It was as if Jansen had admitted to sacrificing small children and bathing in their blood.

 

“You don't get to decide the rules, mage,” Jansen answered, standing up to his full height. “I've seen what _your kind_ can do. And if using your tainted blood keeps a few decent folk safe, it's a price I'm willing to pay.”

 

“You sound just like a maleficarum.”

 

The accusation made something in Jansen snap. Grabbing the apostate by the collar of his shirt, the templar lifted the mage to his feet and slammed him into the nearest tree. Though Jansen easily had 50 pounds of muscle mass on the younger man, the mage remained ever defiant, glaring even as the templar held his dagger in a threatening gesture.

 

“I'd watch your tongue, _apostate,_ ” the templar said, “Or you may find it swiftly removed.”

 

“Jansen!”

 

The templar moodily shrugged Cullen's hand off of his shoulder but relented, letting go of the mage with a none too gentle push against the tree. “If I have to spend another week with it, you better keep it in line, Rutherford.”

 

Wiping his dagger clean, he drew it back into his belt.

 

“We should have waited until he had been brought to the Circle so the First Enchanter could make his phylactery,” Cullen said, conferring quietly with Jansen. He glanced worriedly to where the mage was now crouched in front of the tree, bound hands folded on top of his knees, not quite allowing himself to appear miserable but looking it all the same.

 

It was already bad enough that Jansen made him break protocol by having him draw blood from their captive. With tensions high between templars and mages at the Circle, a violation of that fragile trust would not go over well with either the Knight-Commander or the First Enchanter.

 

“I don't trust this one not to try escaping,” Jansen answered, glaring over at the mage. “And give me that before you do something stupid like lose it.”

 

Taking the phylactery, Jansen stomped off, gathering his traveling pack that he had discarded some yards away.

 

Bending down in front of the mage, who now not only looked angry but also visibly upset, Cullen reached for the cloth that had fallen out along with the rest of his discarded supplies. He was a little mystified as to the mage's behavior because, surely, he must have known what to expect upon capture since the use of phylacteries was pretty common place in Thedas. But if his reaction was anything to go on, the implication of blood magic seemed to have left their captive spooked.

 

With the cloth in hand, Cullen went to wipe the smear of blood on the mage's arm but the apostate pulled out of his reach.

 

“Keep that bloody thing away from me!”

 

He wanted to ask what the problem was but his face reddened when he realized it was literally bloody, the same cloth he had used to wipe his chin earlier. The thought of the cut on his face made his lip sting fiercely once more and though he wouldn't waste a healing potion on something so small, he was wishing he had had the foresight to bring poultice to apply to the wound.

 

“If you'd like, I could bandage—”

 

“I'd much prefer you keep your filthy hands as far away from me as possible.”

 

Cullen's shoulders deflated at the mistrust on the mage's face. Though he tried to hide it, he couldn't help but feel a little hurt at the apostate's hostility.

 

“I know you're not happy about being captured, but if you would just cooperate—”

 

“You're aware how ridiculous you sound, asking me to play 'nice' with you,” the mage said, angrily. “For days now, I have been hiding in these woods, sleeping in filth and surviving off of berries, all to have my freedom stripped from me for being a mage. And if you think I am in the mood to befriend the brutes who would take that away from me, you are sadly more daft than even your companion gives you credit for.”

 

The barrage of insults were starting to get to Cullen, testing the last of his patience. “If you would just try—”

 

“ _Kaffas,_ I should have never come to the South,” the mage mumbled.

 

_The South?_

 

That ruled out Orlesian.

 

“Where are you from?”

 

Cullen had yet to place the man's accent, having never heard anything like it before. And though he had never traveled outside of Fereldan, he had met people from the Free Marches and Orlais. None of them had spoken in the same way as their captive did.

 

The mage stiffened at the question, visibly uncomfortable, though it only made him appear more haughty.

 

“That's hardly any of your business.”

 

Before he could inquire further, Jansen was barking orders for them to get moving. They had a week's journey back to the Circle and had already lost most of the light, the better part of the day having been spent finding the foreign apostate.

 

Tying a rope around the binding on the mage's wrist, Cullen then hastily threw everything back into his sack and gave a gentle tug, indicating for the captive to get to his feet. He did so, without any protest, head held high and eyes sharp as he was dragged along on the march towards Kinloch Hold.

 

* * *

 

 

With autumn fast approaching, there was a distinct chill in the air as night fell, making Cullen shiver underneath the armor he wore. A look to his left, where the mage followed in step beside him, made him wonder how the apostate kept from trembling as Fereldan was not known to have forgiving weather once the short summer ended and the leaves began to fall.

  
  
Pride, he decided.

  
  
If there was any word that could describe their captive, that one seemed to sum up what little Cullen knew of the young man.

  
  
The mage, who had remained quiet for the better part of the afternoon, glanced suspiciously out the corner of his eye.

  
  
Realizing he had once again been caught staring, Cullen self-consciously licked his lip and quickly looked away.

  
  
Maker, did the cut hurt.

  
  
"You should apply poultice to that," the mage said, as if addressing a slow-witted child.

  
  
"I...forgot to pack some," Cullen admitted, feeling even more stupid.  
  


"Of course you did."  
  


So help him, he had a feeling this was going to be the longest week of his life.  
  


Not long after that, they set up camp some yards from the main road that led into the Bannorn. With the cover of the forest, they hoped to avoid any bandits who may be about, most preferring to stick to the roads and prey upon weary travellers who hadn't the foresight to venture into the safety of the woods. Other dangers lurked there, hostile dalish and a variety of creatures but nothing that the templars felt they couldn't handle.  
  


With a small fire going and the mage tied to the nearest tree, Cullen began rifling through their rations.  
  


"If we divide this among the three of us, we should have enough for four days. We may have to go into town or hunt for game," Cullen said.  
  


They had one bow and a few arrows but Cullen was a fairly lousy shot. He was starting to regret having ignored all of Mia's offers to show him how to properly use it, though his skill with a sword certainly made up where he was lacking.  
  


"I'm not sharing my food," Jansen said, giving the mage a withering look. "You wanted to save it so bad, you feed it."  
  


"But Jansen—"  
  


The older templar's glare silenced Cullen's protests.  
  


Splitting his rations in half, he knelt down to where the mage was sitting against the tree. He had left enough slack in rope so the mage could move closer to the fire but their captive remained defiant, slouched far away from the warmth and looking skeptically at the food he was being offered.  
  


"Here," Cullen said, his lips quirking in a small smile.  
  


The torn part of his lip stung fiercely and he flinched.  
  


"How you survived beyond infancy is a mystery I have yet to solve," the mage said, looking pointedly at the cut.  
  


He hesitated but accepted the bread he was being offered.  
  


"My mother and elder sister doted on me. They thought I'd lose my own head if it wasn't attached to my shoulders."  
  


A strange look passed over the mage's face. "...that must have been nice."  
  


There was almost something sad about the mage's eyes and it only fueled Cullen's curiosity. But before he could ask, the apostate made a sound of disgust, glaring at the bread he had just bitten into.  
  


"Please tell me this isn't the only edible thing you brought."  
  


Cullen scratched the back of his neck. "Well..."  
  


" _Festis bei umo caravanum_ ," the mage mumbled.  
  


"What?"  
  


"Let's just say I may end up dead before we arrive at the mage prison, if this is all we have to eat."  
  


"Mage prison?" Cullen questioned, taking a moment to realize the captive meant the Circle. "The Circle is not a prison. It's a safe place for you to study and practice your magic."  
  


"Really?" the mage replied. "So I can come and go as I please?"  
  


"Um...Well, no..."  
  


"I can drink and eat whatever I like, whenever I'd like?"  
  


"Uh...well, food is rationed. And the meals are scheduled..."

  
"Can I at least share my bed with whomever I please?"  
  


"Maker's breath, no!" Cullen said, his face coloring. "It's a place of knowledge, not a...a house of sin!"

 

“...a house of sin?” the mage asked, giving Cullen a _look._

 

At that moment, the templar desired nothing more than for the ground to open up beneath him and swallow him whole.  
  


"Sounds more like a prison if I can't even indulge in a good fuck every now and then,"the mage grumbled.  
  


The expletive had Cullen turning a fiercer shade of red, his appetite forgotten as he stared wide-eyed at the mage. Of course, the man was undeniably handsome and most likely wouldn't have problems finding a 'partner', should he be so inclined to engage in such _activities_. But he hadn't expected him to be so...forward about what he enjoyed in private.  
  


It took a few moments for him to become aware of the mage's intense gaze as he made a very obvious show of looking the templar over.  
  


"You know, if you rethought that horrid facial hair, I dare say you would be handsome."  
  


_Handsome?_  
  


Wait...was he hitting on him?  
  


"Uh-I-uh um uh-"

 

It may have been a backhanded compliment but it still left Cullen incredibly flustered, his tongue feeling like lead in his mouth and refusing to form any words.  
  


"Mind you, I suppose there is a certain rugged charm to it that I have no doubt southern women must fall for," the mage continued, commenting on Cullen's face as if he was discussing something as inane as the weather. "I prefer a clean shaven look myself. Never really found the appeal of covering half of one's face with hair.”

 

“Ch-charm?” Cullen stuttered, fingers touching his trimmed beard self-consciously.

 

_Handsome_ and _charm_ were two words he had never heard directed at him. Branson was considered the handsome one in his family and growing up beside him, Cullen had always felt like the ugly mutt among his siblings.

 

“It's the _innocent, Chantry-boy_ thing,” the mage decided, nodding to himself. “And your lack of self-awareness. Were you not obviously a virgin, I'd think you were using it to make your mark in whatever insignificant hovel you came from.”

 

_...obviously a virgin?_

 

“How can—what makes you think—I-I'm not a—I would never—”

 

Sputtering in frustration, Cullen shook his head and looked down at the food he held. His face felt incredibly hot, as if ready to burst into flame, and Maker willing, he wasn't sure whether to feel insulted by what the mage was insinuating or, oddly enough, flattered that anyone could think of him as being more than the walking disaster he's felt like ever since taking his first draught of lyrium.

 

“Relax, templar Rutherford,” the apostate said, his voice dropping to a lusty whisper. He leaned forward, the scent of spiced perfume seeping into the air around them, and the templar was only just becoming aware of how close the mage had gotten. The devious smirk on the mage's lips made something hot fester low in Cullen's abdomen and were he not so inexperienced and terrified out of his mind, he knew he would want to close the distance and taste that tempestuous mouth.

 

“C-C-Cullen,” the templar stuttered. “M-my name's, uh, C-Cullen.”

 

The mage's nose was nearly pressed to his, his gray eyes a wild storm of unsated temptation.

 

“Cullen,” the mage whispered, testing the name on his tongue. And by the Maker, had Cullen never heard his name sound so lust-filled spilling off another's lips. “I should warn you, I may have...inclinations for corrupting the untouched.”

 

The mage's tongue wetted his own lips, making them shine in the glow of the fire. Cullen's eyes followed its path, yearning coursing through him until it left him aching and confused, his responsibilities coming in stark conflict with need that had his fingers trembling.

 

_Maker, help me._

 

“Rutherford, stop flirting with it!”

 

Cullen yelped in surprise, shuffling back and putting distance between him and their captive. He nearly tumbled into the fire, earning yet another unimpressed snort from Jansen. At this point, he was convinced Jansen had an entire repertoire of sounds that summed up how he felt about Cullen: there was the scoff of disbelief, the grunt of disapproval, and the – of disappointment.

 

“I-I w-wasn't—we w-w-weren't—”

 

“I don't care what you were doing. Make yourself useful and gather some firewood.”

 

The templar began sharpening his blade, throwing an unspoken warning at the mage who, despite his suggestive tone earlier, now looked the picture of innocence as he chewed quietly on his bread.

 

Sighing, Cullen did as he was told and began collecting dried twigs around their makeshift campsite, lost in his own thoughts. For the rest of the evening, he tried to avoid looking at and speaking with the mage, partly to avoid Jansen's ire but also because he didn't want to address the odd attraction he felt towards their captive, one that had him questioning his duties.

 

Templars did the work of the Maker, protected the innocent and ensured that magic was never abused.

 

...so why did forcing this apostate to enter a Circle feel somehow like it was a violation of everything he had trained for?

 

“Cullen,” the whisper came, some time later.

 

The young templar glanced up across the fire, dagger in hand as he had been fashioning arrows while taking first watch. He may have been bad with a bow but he was rather adept at making arrows, having taken up the skill from a young age to make them for his sister Mia. Despite what Jansen said about refusing to share rations, Cullen hoped to at least catch some game at some point in the week since he was missing having a nice, hardy meal.

 

The mage still remained by the tree, sitting on top of Cullen's sleeping roll with the templar's blanket around his shoulders (Jansen had, very warily, conceded to allowing Cullen to take his sleeping roll when it was his turn to take watch). Despite being tired, he seemed as reluctant to sleep as Cullen was to stay awake, the exhaustion of the day's activities wearing on the templar as he remained slouched near the fire.

 

Though he knew Jansen would disapprove, Cullen slipped quietly by his sleeping companion and knelt down near the mage.

 

“My satchel,” the mage whispered, indicating to his bag with his bound hands, “I was wondering if you could retrieve something for me.”

 

Cullen looked questioningly towards their things. “I...I really don't think I should...”

 

Jansen had rifled through it earlier, tossing out elixirs that could be used against them, should the mage make an attempt to flee and manage to retrieve his meager things in the process. Whatever remained would have been deemed harmless enough, though Cullen had looked away uncomfortably when he saw Jansen pocket the mage's supply of lyrium.

 

“Please.”

 

It was said softly and any objection Cullen had immediately crumbled when he made the mistake of looking back at the apostate.

 

“What is it you need?” he found himself asking.

 

He was almost certain that the blind faith he had in others was going to one day come back and bite him in the arse.

 

“There should be a container in there. Nothing sinister, I assure you.”

 

Doing as he was asked, Cullen found the container easily as it was one of the few things that hadn't been tossed away by Jansen. With it in hand, he returned to the apostate, crouching down to sit beside him on the bedroll.

 

“Open it for me.”

 

Cullen hesitated, staring down at what he held with suspicion. But seeing as he had already gone this far, he doubted anything so dangerous could be contained in something as harmless looking as a small tin.

 

Once he had removed the lid, his face lit up in recognition.

 

“Healing poultice,” he murmured.

 

The stinging in his lip and cheek had dulled, though cleaning the wound had done little to ease the pain he felt when he bit into food or drank from his waterskin.

 

“It should help with the pain but I can't guarantee you won't be left without a scar,” the mage said. Then, perhaps feeling a bit self-conscious in his act of charity, he added, “serves you right for jumping in front of a swinging blade, you foolish oaf.”

 

Still, Cullen couldn't help but grin, even if it hurt to do so. “Thank you.”

 

Dabbing his fingers in the poultice, he tried to ignore the racing of his heart, its thudding so loud in his ears, the crackling of the fire became a distant echo. Without any reflection to see his handiwork, he had to feel around and apply the cool salve over the cut, wincing as it made the cut burn before numbing it beneath his fingertips.

 

“You're making an absolute mess of yourself,” the mage said, feigning a hopeless sigh. “Here, allow me.”

 

Although bound at the wrists, the apostate was still able to move enough that one hand tipped Cullen's chin up while the mage slid his index finger carefully over the cut, smoothing over the salve and tidying whatever 'mess' he so disapproved of. The mage's hands were soft, hands that belonged to a man who had never wielded a sword or worked the fields, and the tenderness at which they handled Cullen's wound had the templar swallowing held, a telltale tremble that he pretended was from the night air.

 

The pupils blown in his gray eyes, the mage seemed almost reluctant to draw his hands away from Cullen's face, though his touch still lingered like a ghost across the templar's skin. Or perhaps that was just wishful thinking on the templar's part.

 

“I'd hate to ask but, seeing as I am a bit _tied up_ at the moment...”

 

The mage shrugged the blanket off his right shoulder, exposing the arm that Jansen had cut earlier. The blade had pierced the apostate shallowly but it had still left a mark, one that was now coated with dried blood.

 

Realizing what the mage was asking, the templar colored. “R-right. I'll...yes.”

 

Using the edge of the blanket, he cleaned off the cut as best as he could, wiping away the dried blood and trying not to look up at the mage. The thudding in his chest increased tenfold when his fingers brushed over tanned skin, as smooth as it had felt before, still warm beneath his unsteady hand. He knew his touch lingered longer than it should, the poultice already starting to dry before he pulled back, looked down rather sheepishly and mumbled apologetically.

 

“Cullen?”

 

He heard no judgment in the mage's gentle tone.

 

Eyes drifting up, he was surprised to see a warm smile on the apostate's face.

 

“Thank you.”

 

With a nod, Cullen fumbled back to his feet, knowing he needed to retreat before he did something even more stupid or made more of an ass of himself. He tried to ignore how much tighter his trousers had gotten, crouching near the fire and returning to his previous task of making more arrows. He could convince himself of many things but no matter how much he tried to pretend, there was no denying that something warm had stirred inside of him when the mage had smiled.

 

* * *

 

 

“Are you certain this is the way to the mage prison?”

 

For maybe the hundredth time that afternoon, Cullen found himself needlessly correcting the captive. “It's not a prison. It's the Circle.”

 

The mage huffed at that. “Well, whatever it is you southerners choose to call it, I'm starting to have my doubts that either of you know where you're going. I swear I saw that rock and tree not an hour ago.”

 

“Every damn rock and tree looks the same in this bloody forest,” Jansen grumbled.

 

“A rather astute observation,” the mage replied, dryly. “Now, if you're done being completely obtuse and declaring the obvious, I'd like to direct your attention to the not-so obvious: not every tree has royal elfroot growing underneath it. This one does.”

 

Cullen looked to where the apostate indicated and also began to feel skeptical. It did look familiar. “Maybe we shouldn't have strayed from the main road...”

 

He hadn't questioned it when Jansen had claimed to know a shortcut through the Coastlands. Having grown up in the southwestern part of Fereldan, Cullen wasn't in the least familiar with the northern countryside and had to rely on Jansen's knowledge of the terrain. Now, he couldn't help but wonder if he should have insisted they travel by the north road.

 

Sweat trickled down the back of his neck, dripping into the underclothing he wore beneath his armor. The forest cover provided some protection from the scorching heat but it was uncharactertistically hot, the weather making a final, valiant attempt at reminding them that summer wasn't quite over. With their traveling gear and heavy armor, it made the going slower and more exhausting and, at this rate, Cullen had a feeling they would be arriving a day or two later than he had initially estimated. The more time spent with their captive had done little to pacify Jansen's mood and it was by some Andrastian miracle that the templar hadn't strangled the mage in his sleep for all the complaining the apostate seemed to enjoy doing these last few days.

 

Chancing a glance at their captive, who continued to walk alongside Cullen as if he wasn't bound to the templar's waist and being led to the Circle against his will, the templar felt that same fluttering in his chest that made his cheeks warm and had him adverting his eyes before the apostate caught him staring. Whenever the man wasn't using his sharp tongue to undermine or insult his captors' intellect, he was unsurprisingly quite knowledgeable and Cullen had found himself getting lost in conversation with the mage numerous times that day. Most rewarding was the hint of a smile he caught on the mage's lips on the off chance he managed to amuse him, usually when he was caught in his own ignorance on topics unrelated to Fereldan and the Chantry.

 

“That's possibly the most sensible thing you've said since remarking on the state of the weather earlier,” the mage said, his tone teasing.

 

Cullen blushed deeply, remembering just that morning when he had allowed their captive to wash himself at a stream. Shirtless, with water trickling down his chest, beads gathering in the hem of the trousers worn low on the mage's hips, Cullen's throat had felt dry while his lips moist as he stared and all but drooled over that toned, dark skin glistening within the sun's light. His gawking had been impossible to hide and when the mage had locked eyes with him, a smirk on those devious lips, Cullen had stupidly blurted, “It-it's quite, uh, h-hot,” to which the mage replied, “Are you commenting on the heat or the view?”

 

Maker help him, he had come quite close to dying of humiliation.

 

“Remind me again why we're not taking the road,” the mage continued, snapping Cullen out of his thoughts.

 

“It's faster,” Jansen said, gruffly.

 

“It can't be that much quicker if we're passing the same tree over and over.”

 

“Maker's breath, do you ever shut up?”

 

“You'll earn my silence once you develop a sense of direction. I'd much rather die of boredom in your mage prison than in this Maker-awful forest.”

 

“It's not a prison,” Cullen cut in, though, for not the first and most likely not the last time, he was now caught in a glaring contest involving their captive and his superior.

 

This time, though, Jansen redirected his murderous look at Cullen, as if enduring their captive's barrage of insults and complaints was somehow his fault. In many ways, it sort of was.

 

“Rutherford, do the rest of this forest a favor and gag your damned _pet._ ”

 

“G-gag him? I-is that really necessary?”

 

“Gags and rope? Shall I also disrobe and bend over like a good, mage _pet_?” the mage said, his glib tone drawing an annoyed snort from Jansen. Cullen, on the other hand, found his mind going to other places. “If I didn't know any better, I'd think your proclivities positively salacious. Though, given the very nature of your... _vigil,_ I suppose you templars have to seek out debauchery wherever you can find it. So, by all means, please _gag me._ ”

 

Jansen rolled his eyes, muttering a string of curses under his breath, his fists shaking at his sides. No doubt, he was trying to ignore the urge to strike down the mage where he stood and be done with it.

 

Cullen, however, was an absolute flustered mess, scratching the back of his neck and remaining awkwardly between the two, lest the older templar decide that killing an apostate for mouthing off be reason enough. It took him seconds of strained silence to realize the mage was looking at him expectantly.

 

“Well?” the mage asked.

 

“M-me?” Cullen said, pointing at himself in a way that made him feel even more imbecilic.

 

“It appears we have established that I am _your pet_ and in need of a good gagging. I do ask that you be gentle, as it's been some time since I've had to put my mouth to work,” the mage replied, with a coy wink.

 

“Put your mouth to work? What does...”

 

And as it dawned on the younger templar, he went five shades redder, his deep blush spreading to the tips of his ears. He coughed uncomfortably, looking away hastily to stare at the forest floor with newfound interest.

 

“Th-that's—well—you-you really sh-shouldn't—”

 

“Stop wasting your breath and get moving,” Jansen called over his shoulder, deciding he really had had enough and carrying on in the direction they had been walking. “We don't have time for—!”

 

A loud howl made the templar stop, hand grasping the pommel of his sword and unsheathing it. A chill ran down Cullen's spine as he drew his own blade and shield, indicating for the apostate to remain behind him with a quick nod. Taking a defensive stance, he slowly crouched forward towards Jansen, careful in his movement so as to avoid having his armor clank loudly. With the mage still bound to him, the apostate was forced to follow, mimicking Cullen's stance.

 

“What was that?” Cullen whispered, once he was close enough.

 

He hadn't spent as much time out in the Fereldan wilds and, for the life of him, could not place the sound.

 

“Giant,” Jansen muttered, staring determinedly through the trees.

 

Now that they were no longer bickering, they could hear the cracking of branches and shrubbery some yards ahead, felt the hint of a tremble in the ground beneath them each time the creature moved. It was now late in the afternoon, the shadows in the forest longer with the disappearing light, and though they could hear the giant, Cullen still couldn't see it.

 

“Stay here.”

 

“But Jansen—”

 

The templar glanced over his shoulder, a stern look on his face. “You remember your training, Rutherford?”

 

His dark eyes flickered meaningfully to the mage crouched behind Cullen.

 

Swallowing hard, Cullen nodded. He knew that look.

 

_If he gets away, stop him. By any means._

 

And what better opportunity to attempt an escape if the templars were forced to fight off a giant.

 

Still crouched, Jansen slowly made his way forward and Cullen waited, not even realizing he had been holding his breath, until the templar disappeared through the trees ahead. It was a good, long minute of tense silence, the only sign that the giant had yet to be alerted of their presence the slow quiver in the ground, before Cullen quietly addressed the captive.

 

“Whatever happens, stay behind me.”

 

There was a pause before he felt the heat of the mage leaning in close, his breath warm and hot on Cullen's ear. And if we wasn't terrified out of his mind, he knew he would be responding quite differently to being so close to the mage. “You should untie me.”

 

“I...I'm not supposed to,” Cullen whispered back.

 

He turned his head slightly and nearly bumped noses with the other man. He hadn't realized they were _that_ close. All at once, he became aware of the distinct scent of the apostate, the spiced soap he had used earlier that morning thick in the air as Cullen took an unsteady breath, the apostate's nose brushing his cheek. His lips spilled words that all but caressed Cullen's skin and for a moment, the templar was lost in how _nice_ it felt to be this close to anyone, forgetting their immediate danger and so distracted, he missed what the mage had said.

 

“...huh?”

 

The mage sighed. “I said I will only slow you down if that thing attacks us.”

 

He did have a point.

 

“...how do I know you won't try to escape?”

 

By Andraste, was he really considering this?

 

Jansen was going to murder him.

 

“Though I have commented on your lack of common sense on numerous occasions, I will attempt to appeal to it now,” the mage answered. “Quite simply: If either of you savages piss that thing off, it'll attack all of us. And I assure you, while I have many talents, outrunning giants is not one of them!”

 

That...was actually pretty sound logic.

 

“If you try and escape, I will be forced to strike you down,” Cullen whispered, quietly setting down his blade and shield. He tried to sound threatening but he knew that he failed miserably.

 

“As your dear Jansen has reminded me far too many times for my comfort.”

 

Cullen's hands stilled as they went to the rope around his waist. “Do I have your word that you will stay by my side?”

 

The mage appeared quite startled, staring back quizzically at Cullen. But even Cullen couldn't determine what that look meant. For a brief second, there was something warm and vulnerable in the mage's expression but it passed as swiftly as it had appeared.

 

“Are you saying you trust me?”

 

It went against everything he had been taught about mages and apprehending them back during his training. And he was certain that if any of his instructors could see him now, they would have him whipped and stripped of his title.

 

But so help him, he actually did _trust_ this apostate. “If you give me your word, then yes.”

 

“Then you have my word, Cullen.”

 

At that, Cullen smiled, even though his lip still stung from the wound that had mostly healed. He began untying the rope around his waist. “If we're going to trust each other, perhaps you should tell me your na—”

 

A loud shout could be heard in the distance, followed by a thunderous clang as the ground around them began to shake. Before Cullen could get to the leather bindings on the apostate's wrists, he was once again reaching for his shield and sword, standing defensively in front of the apostate. The ground stilled, the forest around them becoming almost deathly silent. For many seconds, the templar held his position, too afraid to even exhale as the odd prickling at the back of his neck told him that something wasn't right.

 

“Do you think—?”

 

But the mage never got to finish his question.

 

A roar ripped through the air, branches and bushes bending and snapping as a giant came barreling through the trees towards them. Its tall, lumbering frame brushed aside thick branches and foliage with the same ease as Cullen had running through fields of wheat in his youth. But the absolute rage in its dark eyes told the templar all he needed: whatever Jansen had done, it was now out for blood.

 

“Find cover!” Cullen shouted, raising his shield in front of him.

 

“ _Kaffas_! You better not be thinking of—!”

 

With a cry, the templar charged forward, the blade in his right hand out at his side, ready to strike. As the giant swung its arms, Cullen ducked lower, dodging its swing and moving in close to the beast, swinging his blade across one of its shins.

 

The creature howled as blood was drawn, though instead of hindering it, it only seemed to make the giant more angry. Cullen had barely enough time to use his shield to block one of its fists that came crashing down on him.

 

“By the Maker!”

 

The force was enough to make him stagger, had him stumbling backwards, feet skidding into the earth. He gritted his teeth as his shield vibrated in his hand, brought it up once more as the giant slammed his fist into it again. This time, Cullen lost his balance and fall backwards into the ground.

 

The giant loomed over him, its large tusks and rotting teeth a terrifying sight as it folded its hands together, raised both arms above its head, and prepared to bring down both its fists to crush the overzealous templar.

 

_By Andraste, this is the end,_ Cullen thought.

 

He regretted those long months of neglecting to write Mia, of not telling his family he loved them, and hoped to the Maker that if this was how he'd go out, it would be swift.

 

But before he met his death by the creature's hands, it cried out in pain, staggering back as fire exploded on its chest. Cullen took the opportunity to scramble to his feet, glanced to where he had left the mage and saw the apostate, leather bindings burnt off his wrists and a scowl on his lips, glaring in challenge at the giant.

 

“Over here, you ugly brute!”

 

Losing interest in the templar, the giant charged towards the unarmed mage.

 

Without heavy armor to encumber him, the mage easily dodged the giants slow fists, the air around them crackling with magical energy as sparks erupted off the apostate's hands. He threw fireball after fireball after the giant, singing its washed out skin, the smell of burning flesh leaving a nauseating taste in the air. But it was like passing a candle's flame too close to one's skin as the giant seemed more frustrated than injured by the onslaught, even as parts of its flesh burned and blistered.

 

Without a staff to properly direct and channel his magic, some of the spells went too far from their mark, others burst in front of him before they could be sent at the creature. One such spell exploded in the mage's hand, the force of it making him stumble back and leaving him open to the giant's fist.

 

_No!_

 

Cullen was there in an instant, his shield clanging as it met the giant's fist. Before he had a chance to recover, the giant's large, soiled foot clamped down on the steel shield, knocking Cullen beneath it and attempting to crush him into the ground.

 

“Cullen!”

 

He grunted under the weight of his shield and the giant's foot, the sound of steel rubbing into his armor sharp and ringing like a warrior's dirge in his ears. As more pressure was applied, he could feel the armor he wore bend beneath the giant's weight. He tried to move but he was trapped and slowly being crushed to death. Though he tried to take in air, he couldn't breathe and wasn't sure if his bones would break first or if his lungs would burst from being denied breath.

 

_Maker, though the darkness comes upon me, I shall embrace the Light..._

 

The ground around him quaked and he gasped, greedily taking air into his lungs as the pressure was lifted. Through his blurred vision, he saw the giant claw at its own face, wailing and groaning until it fled in its own panic, chased by invisible enemies.

 

_A Terror spell,_ Cullen realized, breathing in heavily.

 

He closed his eyes and shuddered.

 

Before long, he heard a distant sound that seemed to echo in his head. As he fought the urge to slip into the welcoming darkness, exhaustion settled deep into his bones, the sound became louder and he realized that it was his name.

 

Eyes fluttering open, he stared into a pair of stormy, gray eyes, blinking rapidly through his fatigue. The set of hands that cradled his cheeks felt warm, his skin ablaze beneath their gentle grasp. The relief on the mage's face, the smile that broke from those lips that would only spill honey when accompanied by a barb, made Cullen's heart beat a little harder.

 

_He was worried about me._

 

And of course, that only made Cullen grin like an idiot.

 

Then, remembering himself, the mage hastily schooled his expression.

 

“ _Fasta vass,_ you fool. You could have gotten yourself killed charging at the beast as you had,” the mage reprimanded.

 

There was a telltale tremble in the apostate's voice.

 

Cullen placed his gloved hand over the mage's, wishing he hadn't been wearing his gauntlets. He felt a strong, sudden yearning to weave his fingers in the other man's and wondered where that urge came from, far different than the moments of improper desire he had felt for the mage.

 

“I had to keep you safe,” he said, his voice sounding hoarse. “It's what templars do.”

 

The look on the mage's face instantly softened, though Cullen caught a glimpse of sadness before the mage looked away, drawing his now free hands into his lap. The templar almost didn't catch what the apostate said, spoken as quietly as it was. “Some people aren't worth saving.”

 

His skin felt colder without the mage's touch.

 

Before Cullen could ask what the mage meant, a blast of energy struck the apostate and he collapsed beside the templar, his body shaking as a half-strangled groan ripped from his throat.

 

“Stay down, _apostate!_ ”

 

The fury in Jansen's voice made Cullen's blood run cold.

 

He intended on killing the mage.

 

Body protesting, Cullen tried to get to his feet but was instantly hit with vertigo, his vision swimming. On his hands and knees, he tried blindly to right himself but found he was too exhausted to stand. As his vision came into focus, he could see Jansen standing over their captive, the blade of his sword pressed to the mage's throat.

 

“So help me, I should have killed you when I had the chance!”

 

It took him a moment to consider the scene that Jansen must have walked in on: Cullen knocked to the ground, the mage, who was supposed to be bound, hovering over him. And given how these situations often played out, it was no wonder the older man thought the worst.

 

“He chased off the giant!” Cullen said, trying once more to get to his feet. “He—he saved me!”

 

Even if Jansen looked skeptical, it at least made him pause. He stared down hard at the mage, sword pressed tight enough to the apostate's skin that it nicked the flesh beneath his Adam's apple. A few drops of the mage's blood kissed the edge of Jansen's blade and it made Cullen sick to his stomach.

 

“Jansen!”

 

With a huff, the templar sheathed his sword. But his posture remained defensive, as if challenging either Cullen or the apostate to give him a reason to kill their charge. After a long, tense moment, he flicked his eyes to the younger templar, his scowl no less onerous.

 

“I won't ask why he's not tied up,” Jansen said, quietly. “Just see to it that he's bound once more.”

 

And without another word, the templar went to retrieve their traveling supplies.

 

Once out of earshot, Cullen knelt down to help the apostate to his knees. But as soon as the mage had stopped shaking, he was shrugging off Cullen's hands.

 

Instead of the warmth Cullen had felt earlier, all he felt now was the burn of the mage's rejection.

 

“Is this the kind of treatment I can expect at your _Circle_?” the apostate asked, sneering at the word.

 

The templar wanted to tell him that not all of them were like Jansen. He wanted to say that there were many of his brothers and sisters in the Order who didn't treat mages with immediate distrust and that the apostate would not have a difficult time in the Circle.

 

But there was a lot about Jansen's behavior that was reminiscent of what Cullen had seen among his peers in the time since he'd started his service at Kinloch Hold.

 

When all he had to offer was his silence, the mage gave him a look that made shame fester colder than a Frostback storm, spreading like ice in his veins.

 

The two hardly exchanged a word as Cullen found new bindings and tied him back up. It was a sobering reminder that this was how it was supposed to be: the mage, a prisoner of his own birth, and the templar, the one who would escort him to his iron-barred tower.

 

* * *

 

 

Finding the north road took some time and once they had, the sun was already setting and the sky painted in hues of red and indigo. Jansen's “shortcut” had in fact led them in a series of circles and they had traveled hardly any farther west than when they had first taken their detour. To make things worse, they had lost most of their supplies when the giant attacked and now had to make do with only one bedroll, a meal's worth of food, and their lyrium.

 

They continued walking until it was well into evening, the stars shining brightly in the sky and the sound of crickets chirping ringing loudly in the air. When Cullen thought his feet would no longer carry him, the weariness of the day's events setting heavily into his tired frame, Jansen finally led them off-road to a small clearing and instructed the younger templar to begin setting up a meager camp. On any other night, he would have pointed out how close they remained to the main road as any fire they lit could be easily detected but he was too exhausted to care to argue.

 

With their captive tethered securely to the tree, as he had been every other night with enough room to move closer to the fire, Cullen collapsed near Jansen with a low groan and sluggishly began removing his gauntlets and greaves, followed by his boots. His feet were heavily blistered from all their trekking and not for the first time, he wished he had remembered to bring salve or poultice to offer some relief to the stinging. Feet stretched out before him in front of the fire, he briefly pondered asking the mage about using his but knew with the tension still prevailing between them, it would be a conversation that wouldn't end well.

 

Seeing Jansen pull out one of the vials of lyrium he had coveted from the mage, Cullen pulled out his own kit from his satchel.

 

“That's my lyrium,” the apostate said, not without judgment.

 

Jansen shrugged, swallowing the entirety of its contents. It was more than he was supposed to be taking, nearly twice his allotted dosage, and he drank from the glass flask quite greedily. Something about the way Jansen's eyes shone, the near moan of pleasure as he finished it off, was unsettling to Cullen, in a way the younger templar had yet to understand.

 

“That stuff will kill you,” the mage added.

 

Cullen looked down at the small dosages in his kit. He still didn't care as much for the taste of lyrium but had been taking it for nearly a year now. He knew at some point, his dosage would need to increase and with it, the effects that it would eventually wrought on his mind. It wasn't something he ever really thought about. He just did as he was told.

 

But now...

 

“Never asked your opinion, _apostate_. Rutherford?”

 

The command went unspoken.

 

Taking one of the vials, Cullen uncorked it and downed the blue liquid.

 

The mage huffed in disgust but otherwise, fell back into brooding silence.

 

Later, once more firewood had been gathered and Cullen and Jansen had looked over all that remained of their gear, the younger templar handed a portion of their leftover food to the mage, far smaller than the half of his rations he had been sharing with the man at every meal. Even Cullen's stomach groaned from hunger but a scouring of the immediate area in the dark had only produced a handful of berries, most of which he had relinquished to Jansen, who was still weary from having used his abilities earlier. They may have better luck in the morning but for now, they had to wait until there was some light before they could seek out another source of food.

 

“ _Venhedis_ , I really will die before I make it to your mage prison,” the apostate grumbled, biting into his food.

 

Once more, Cullen found himself curious of the foreign words the mage used. Not of their meaning since, given how colorful the mage could be in expressing his displeasure, the templar had a feeling he was using some swear in a foreign tongue, but he was still wondering where exactly the man called _home_.

 

“Is that Rivaini?”

 

The scathing look he received told him his answer before the mage could voice it.

 

“Do I _look like_ I'm from the Rivain?”

 

Cullen wasn't sure what to say. He had never met anyone from the Rivain so he had no frame of reference for how one from the Rivain 'looked'. On the other hand, he had received enough of a tongue lashing from Circle mages back when he had first been assigned and naively made comments about how certain mages looked and sounded like they were from parts of Thedas he recognized. It had taken the kind patience of Wynne, a mage who had been with the Circle for some years, to sit him down and let him know that making snap judgments would not earn him many friends.

 

“Antivan?” he asked, deciding to ignore the mage's question before his fool tongue got him into trouble.

 

The apostate, unfortunately, thought Cullen was answering his question.

 

“You think I look _Antivan_?”

 

And he seemed to be even more offended.

 

Maker's breath, why was Cullen so hopeless?

 

“No! That's not what I...I just meant—I thought you were speaking it. Antivan. I mean.”

 

The captive looked at him like he was an idiot, his handsome face pulling an expression Cullen often saw Jansen direct at him. And though the young templar was smart enough to at least keep this to himself, he couldn't help but think that the apostate and Jansen had at least something in common: their firm belief in how dumb Cullen could be.

 

“Have you ever even heard a language spoken outside of your own barbaric tongue?” the mage complained, finishing off the last of his food.

 

Cullen chewed thoughtfully on his food, wracking his brain for any language he may recognize. Pretty much everyone he knew spoke only common but he was certain he had heard a foreign language at some point in his life, before meeting this apostate. “I believe I once heard Orlesian spoken in Redcliffe.”

 

The mage perked up at that. “Parlez-vous la langue d'Orlais? Magnifique. Maintenant, peut-être pouvons-nous avoir une conversation intéressante.”

 

When Cullen only stared at the apostate blankly, the mage sighed.“That was Orlesian.”

 

“Oh, so you're from Orlais?”

 

Maybe he shouldn't have been so quick to rule that out earlier.

 

“I should hope not.”

 

Brows furrowing, Cullen then asked, “But then how do you know Orlesian?”

 

“It's called an _education._ An expensive one. And while I'm certain my father may have strong opinions about what he his coin got him, it was money well spent.”

 

Cullen had only come from humble origins and couldn't say he understood. Just being allowed to train as a templar had seemed more than a farmer's son could ever hope for. “So, you're a noble?”

 

The apostate grew very uncomfortable at that, perhaps thinking he'd given away more than he had wanted. But before he could respond, or Cullen could pry further, Jansen was putting his greaves back on and replacing other armor he had removed earlier.

 

“Remember that inn we stayed at on the way up? It should be about a mile down the north road.”

 

Cullen wanted to caution the templar against setting out blindly in the dark and, Maker, was he too tired to even consider packing up camp on a whim. But then he recalled one of the few nights they had spent at an inn while traveling to Amaranthine and if his memory served him correctly, the inn should not be far from where they were camped.

 

“I think you're right. Shall I pack up camp?”

 

He was tired but a bed certainly beat sleeping out in the woods, with only one bedroll between them.

 

“There's no need. You stay here and I'll be back with more food and supplies. Kendric owes me a favor since I got rid of his little mage problem a few years back.”

 

Cullen didn't have to ask but he had no doubt that had ended in blood.

 

“An inn? With beds? And you would have us squatting in the woods like some bloody bandits?” the mage said.

 

“Oh, I'm sorry your royal nuisance, perhaps I didn't make myself clear: I _cleaned up_ this inn when one of you decided to hole up there after escaping the Circle,” Jansen said, his expression darkening as he stared at the mage.

 

“Perhaps if you made your mage prison—”

 

“Circle,” Cullen cut in, though his correction, as usual, went ignored.

 

“—livable, the mage wouldn't have escaped in the first place.”

 

“Don't think to tell me how it 'ought to be' when you damn well don't know 'how it is',” Jansen said, with a scowl. “That mage had it easy: all he had to do was stay where he was, practice his damn magic, and we would have left him alone. But he had to go and take a family hostage, tried to weasel his way out by using them as a bargaining chip. And when I refused, it didn't stop that _maleficarum_ from sacrificing the youngest and summoning a demon. You mages are all alike, not afraid to get your hands bloody to get what you want!”

 

Cullen's blood chilled at Jansen's retelling of the event. He had never asked the templar why they had been offered beds free of charge at the inn but now that he knew...

 

“I'm _no_ blood mage,” the apostate said, practically spitting on the word.

 

“Some may think differently in these parts, _Vint,_ ” Jansen sneered.

 

The word wasn't one he had heard often, only spoken among the more experienced templars who have had the rare encounter with a Tevinter, often said with the same contempt at which Jansen had used it. Cullen wanted to tell Jansen that there was no need to insult the mage but a glance at the shock on their captive's face, the way the color nearly drained from his face, made dread settle thick in Cullen's chest.

 

_No...he can't be..._

 

All the childhood horror stories of Tevinter magisters, of their penchant for forbidden magic, their killing of Andraste, and the terror they had unleashed upon Thedas for their avarice, came crashing over Cullen.

 

He stared at the mage as if looking at a stranger, like some ferocious nightmare unleashed from the Fade, and felt disgust bubble in him so thick, he had to avert his eyes, couldn't bear seeing the face of such evil wrapped in a handsome package.

 

A Tevinter magister. And his fool heart had to protect the man as if he was worth their protection.

 

The mage didn't even have the audacity to try and refute what Jansen claimed.

 

“You knew.”

 

The elder templar spat at the ground near his feet. “Any idiot with half a brain knows Tevene when they hear it.”

 

_Any idiot except me._

 

“You're lucky this stupid lout's got a soft spot for magic things,” the templar continued. “Or I'd have sent you straight to the Fade. Mages, well, at least they can be useful. But the only good 'Vint's a dead one.”

 

And though his hand went to the pommel of his sword, he seemed to get some sick satisfaction out of seeing the discomfort on the mage's face, an almost imperceptible twitching in the captive's brow. The apostate refused to show his fear openly.

 

“Why keep me alive, then? Why not just kill me and be done with it?” the mage demanded.

 

Jansen chuckled. “As much joy as I'd get running my sword through you, you 'Vint fuck, I know all about _your kind._ You'll slip up: and when you do, Rutherford here will be the one to end your miserable, pathetic life. Boy's gotta learn some time to stop trusting every damn apostate he meets.”

 

The mage fell silent at that. Cullen felt as if he was going to be sick.

 

“I'll be back soon,” Jansen said, picking up his shield. “And so help me, Rutherford, if I come back here and he's missing and you're not rotting on the ground, I'm killing you myself.”

 

Cullen merely nodded.

 

He waited until well after Jansen had left, gazing into the crackling flames, chest hollow with the cold truth of what he had done, of who he was attempting to bring to the circle. When he looked up at the mage curled on the other side, it was as if he was seeing the man for the first time, for the threat that he really was.

 

“So, you're from _Tevinter_?”

 

He couldn't even say the name of that forsaken place with a straight face, contempt heavy on his tongue.

 

Part of him wanted desperately for the mage to tell him otherwise, to say he had been lying to Jansen. It's not as if he had been forthcoming with anything else, why should this accusation be any different?

 

“I...suppose I am. Yes.”

 

Cullen's lip twitched. The scar burned, aching like a fresh wound inflicted by the apostate himself. A scar he would bear for the rest of his life, for the ignorant choice he had made.

 

The mage had already left his mark on him.

 

“Why didn't you say anything?” the templar asked.

 

“Given the way you southerners feel about my country, and my kind, no less, could you really blame me erring on the side of caution?”

 

It didn't change how lied to Cullen felt, how everything he thought he stood for was suddenly put to the test.

 

“You were right,” Cullen said, his tone cold but not without the sting of betrayal. “Some people aren't worth saving.”

 

And though he wanted to be heartless, he had to look away, for he couldn't bear the sight of the hurt on the mage's face.

 

_He deserves no less._

 

But why did it feel like the only person Cullen was trying to fool was himself?

 

* * *

 

 

For the next while, as the half moon rose higher in the sky and the stars twinkled brightly on that clear evening, Cullen remained stoic, keeping as much distance between him and the captive, but always within his line of sight. He busied his hands, first by gathering some wood, later by sitting at the edge of the campsite, fashioning a new bow to replace the one they had lost, whittling away at the ends of a branch he had collected.

 

It would be nothing special, perhaps barely strong enough to let an arrow fly far enough to pierce the hide of quick moving game. But he had to keep himself distracted, didn't trust himself to be near enough to the apostate to not let angry words spill off his tongue.

 

Maker's breath, how could he have been so stupid?

 

He growled in frustration as his dagger cracked the branch he had been shaping. Throwing it and his dagger down in anger, he tried pacifying the bubbling rage by taking a slow, deep breath.

 

_The mage's warm hands on his cheeks...the way his eyes lit up whenever they bantered...the gentleness of his smile..._

 

Fuck.

 

Unable to contain it any longer, he stormed over towards the fire, stopping before it, hands balled into fists and shaking at his sides. The glare on his face certainly caught the mage's attention but instead of answering in kind with a withering look of his own, the Tevinter had the audacity to look _bored._

 

“Something on your mind?”

 

Andraste's flaming arse, even the mage's tone was _infuriating._

 

“All of... _this!”_ Cullen sputtered, indicating to the space between them. “It was some bloody ruse to manipulate me!”

 

“Why, my dear Cullen, whatever are you referring to?”

 

“Don't play innocent with me, _apostate!_ You knew damn well what all your flirting would get you!”

 

“You must forgive me for being so unbelievably selfish,” the mage said, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “Captured by two templars I had no chance of escaping with my life and I chose self-preservation by indulging your little crush and guaranteeing I at least make it to your silly mage prison. But please, do go on about how I hurt _your_ feelings!”

 

In frustration, Cullen kicked a rock into the fire. Embers flew around his boots and it was taking all of his self-control to not shout every blasphemous expletive sitting on the edge of his tongue.

 

“Well, you certainly showed that fire to not get on your bad side! Now, are you done with your little tantrum? I'd like to get some rest before your companion returns and blathers on about all the ways to kill a mage with that bloody great sword of his. I suspect he's overcompensating but even I have enough respect for my continued existence to not make such a remark to his face.”

 

Feeling his ire begin to die with the embers trampled beneath his boot, the templar watched the mage tuck his legs closer to himself, a meager shielding from the cool, evening air. He had hardly moved all evening, doing as he had done the first night and keeping space between him and the fire. For a second, Cullen almost felt bad for him. Almost.

 

“I trusted you,” Cullen said, and he hated how weak it made him sound, how admitting it proved everyone's point.

 

The mage almost seemed sad at the confession. “Perhaps you shouldn't have.”

 

“If you had just been honest—”

 

“Then, what? You would have let me live?” the mage finally snapped, his gray eyes flicking up, burning with the same fury as the fire's crackling flames. “I'm no fool. I've spent my entire life being hated for what I am and the look on your face was nothing I'm not already _intimately_ acquainted with!”

 

“What are you going on about?” Cullen asked. “Hated for what you are? But aren't you from the Imperium?”

 

“As we have already established, yes.”

 

“I thought magisters ruled Tevinter.”

 

“They do! But not all Tevinter-born magic users are those _evil magisters_ your Chantry preaches against to justify locking up your mages in towers,” the mage said, angrily. “Perhaps, if you had cared to gain knowledge outside of your ignorant bubble, you'd know that a _magister_ is a political title and that blood magic is banned in the Imperium!”

 

“So...you're not a magister?”

 

Now Cullen was really confused. He tried wracking his brain for any writings on Tevinter he could recall having read during his training. But what limited resources they had spoke little of the Northern country, beyond the misdeeds committed by the emperor and his people hundreds of years ago.

 

“Your ability at deducing what should have been painfully obvious only adds credence to how backwards you Fereldans are.”

 

“Will you stop acting as if I'm not trying,” Cullen said, beginning to get angry again.

 

The apostate's laugh was bitter. “How rude of me to be lacking in empathy for my captor and his misguided assumptions against me and my country. By all means, tell me how you'd like for me to behave, lest my glib tongue continue to damage your thin ego.”

 

“You're not even giving me a chance!”

 

“And why should I?” the mage demanded. “You don't understand how easy life has been for men like you! How wonderful it must be, going your whole life with a _doting_ _family_ and playing hero to the rest of the ignorant sods in this bloody place as you save them from “evil” mages! If only all of us could be so lucky!”

 

“If you hate it here so much then why in the name of the Maker did you ever leave Tevinter?!” Cullen said.

 

“Are you really that daft or have my proclivities really escaped your notice!” the mage huffed.

 

Cullen paused, brows furrowing, trying to think of what the mage could be referring to. So help him, he was going to show the mouthy Tevinter that he wasn't completely useless and able to connect the dots himself.

 

His face colored when he reached his answer. “W-wait. Y-you're saying you weren't liked because you have had...relations outside of marriage?”

 

The mage stared at Cullen blankly.

 

And then stared.

 

And then stared some more.

 

It made the templar so uncomfortable, he began scratching the back of his neck, where his skin had gone as undoubtedly red as his cheeks.

 

“ _Venhedis,_ you really are daft,” the mage grumbled.

 

“W-what?”

 

“I was so hated for liking men, you fool!”

 

That left Cullen feeling even more confused.

 

“Why would anyone care if you like men?”

 

It wasn't exactly common in Fereldan, but happened often enough that most people wouldn't go out of their way to throw a fuss over it. Fereldans tended to have big families and so long as someone was able to carry on the family trade, no one batted an eye at what went on behind closed doors.

 

The shocked look on the apostate's face made Cullen feel somewhat triumphant. Perhaps he wasn't the only one with cultural ignorance.

 

“It's—you know what? I do not have to explain my culture to some southern barbarian who thinks Tevene sounds like Rivaini!”

 

“This southern barbarian is the only reason you still have your head, mage!”

 

“It's hard to feel gratitude when you've kept me bound as you drag me to your Maker-awful mage prison!”

 

“By Andraste, it's a bloody Circle!”

 

“It can be a bloody triangle for all I care!”

 

“Maker's breath, are you always this impossible?!”

 

Whatever quip the mage had been about to unleash died on his lips as he made a startled sound. Cullen was about to make some snide comment about besting the apostate when he felt cool steal slide against his neck and an arm reach around his unarmored chest, pressing him back against something tall and solid. His reaction was to struggle but what little movement he could manage only caused the dagger to dig further against his skin.

 

“As... _enlightening_ as that was, I must caution against the ruckus your spat has caused,” a smooth, accented voice whispered from the shadows. “You never know what sort of characters could be wandering the roads this late at night.”

 

From the trees emerged a human, clad in dark leather, daggers in hand. Though he bore a scar on his tanned face, he was still quite handsome, his brown hair carefully oiled and dark eyes glancing mischievously between the templar and his captive. He was followed quite closely by a waifish elf, her long hair pinned back in a ponytail and a bow drawn taut, aimed at the mage. Another human, older and more weathered than his companions, emerged from the opposite end of the campsite, using a dagger to pick boredly at his teeth.

 

_Bandits,_ Cullen thought, stifling the urge to groan aloud.

 

Whoever was holding him captive had a firm grip on him and he didn't dare make a sound or move, not until he had properly assessed the situation.

 

From what he could tell, there were four of them. His limited pool of mana was completely full from the lyrium he had taken earlier. However, his smite was useless against anyone without a connection to the Fade. And none of them seemed to be magic-users.

 

That left physical combat. In single combat, he could take on any of the three surrounding them. The one holding him...that might be a bit of a challenge. Whoever it was, it felt like he was being held by some giant.

 

And seeing the look on the mage's face, who had something like contempt as he glared up at the one holding Cullen, the templar had a feeling that his suspicions weren't far off.

 

“What is it you want?” Cullen asked, carefully.

 

The one who had spoken—the leader, laughed gaily at the templar's question. “I thought your predicament made it quite clear: we'll be taking all your supplies and armor. And perhaps if you don't give us any trouble, we may yet let you live.”

 

Four of them. Cullen would never stand a chance. Not unless...

 

His eyes flickered to the mage's. The apostate could easily burn through his bindings. Maybe then they would be able to overpower the bandits.

 

“Are you sure you want to do that?” he said, his light tone carrying the hint of his threat.

 

Understanding dawned in the apostate's eyes but, much to Cullen's dismay, the mage was shaking his head at him.

 

The bandit leader glanced between the two, a troubled look on his face. “You know, I suppose if your _captive,_ ” and he put as much stress on the word as possible, “chose to protect his captor, we would be no match for a mage. And I've been called a betting man, but I'd like to think I know when to fold instead of bluff.”

 

“One word and I put an arrow in 'is head before he gives us trouble,” the elf said, bow still drawn.

 

“Now, now, Sevannah, there's no need for bloodshed,” the leader said. “You know how much I prefer a clean job. I think I have a way around this that can get most of us what we want.”

 

Seeing the shit-eating grin on the bandit's face, Cullen had a strong feeling he did not like where this was going...

 

“Mage, how would you like a 'free pass'?”

 

The apostate regarded the bandit curiously. The bandit's playful tone had certainly gotten his attention. “I'm listening.”

 

“A handsome, fine young man such as yourself should not spend his days locked in some _Maker-awful mage prison_.”

 

When the bandit reached out to caress the mage's cheek affectionately, Cullen felt a hot kind of anger, one he had rarely experienced, spark in his chest. He wanted to rip the man's hand away, demand to know what made him think he could touch the mage like _that._ To make it worse, the mage leaned into the touch, clearly enjoying it.

 

“It does sound rather dreary,” the mage sighed, lashes fluttering coyly at the bandit. “And I bemoan that such fate has befallen me. Whatever shall I do?”

 

The templar couldn't decide whether he was more upset at having been made captive or at the mage's positive response to the bandit's flirtatious advances.

 

“I've an interesting proposition for you,” the bandit leader purred. “You let us rob your _friend_ and we let you on your merry way. We get our loot, you get your freedom.”

 

“As much as I love being propositioned by a handsome face,” the apostate answered, adopting a similar flirty tone that the bandit had been using with him, “my... _friend_ has assured me that at the first attempt of escape, he will smite me with all of the Maker's wrath.”

 

“Then you have my word: if he so much as tries to harm a hair on your pretty head, we will kill him.”

 

The mage fell silent, pondering his options.

 

Meanwhile, Cullen was internally screaming at him to not side with the bandits, to help him fight them off. Their odds weren't great but there was still a _chance_ and despite all of their arguing, he'd like to think that the mage at least had come to respect there odd companionship enough to come to the Fereldan's aid.

 

_Don't do it! By the Maker, don't!_

 

“Then consider me a passive observer to your looting,” the apostate decided, with a smirk.

 

... _shit._

 

And that was how Cullen Rutherford soon found himself bound to a tree, stripped of the last of his weapons and armor, and glaring quite pointedly at a certain mage.

 

A certain mage who was now sitting across the bandit's lap, drinking quite generously from a waterskin filled with liquor and laughing uproariously at something the bandit had whispered in his ear. The bandit leader's hand kept inching lower on the apostate's waist, his possessive hold on the Tevinter declaring to the group sitting around the fire that he had claimed more than just stolen gear for the evening. And if finding himself sneaked upon and bested by a band of rogues wasn't the worst of Cullen's problems, stewing in his own jealousy like a miserly sap wasn't making him feel any better.

 

“Stop moving,” the Tal-vashoth mercenary grumbled, standing guard beside the tree.

 

Cullen had been surprised when he had caught a good look at his captor, having only seen a kossith once in his life, back before he had completed his templar training. He had heard there were more in Denerim but he had yet to venture that far east in Fereldan. Alistair had remarked that there were all sorts of people in Fereldan's capital, but also warned Cullen to not piss off a kossith should he ever come face to face with one.

 

“The ones this far south are usually mercs and they have no trouble killing you if you're caught staring at them,” his friend had said. “And trust me, you'll find it hard not to stare. It's the horns.”

 

Maker, had he been right.

 

Luckily, Cullen's eyes had been drawn away from the hulking kossith to direct all his ire at his once captive. He supposed he couldn't blame the mage for finding the bandit leader attractive but did he have to be so _blatant_ about it?

 

“Do you have a name, mage?” the bandit asked, accepting the waterskin from the apostate.

 

“Lucius,” the mage said, easily.

 

Cullen nearly choked. “Y-your name's Lucius?”

 

How could he tell some stranger his name when he had done everything in his power to evade that question whenever Cullen had asked it?

 

With an annoyed sigh, the bandit said, “Dirk...could you remind the captive he's to be seen and not heard?”

 

The kossith kicked Cullen's side with an armored boot and the templar grunted in pain. That was definitely going to leave a bruise.

 

Trailing a hand slowly down the bandit's chest, Lucius said, “Now, Claude, while I have an appreciation for the dramatic, there's no need to be so...rough. Not unless it's with me, of course. Let the silly man be.”

 

Dropping the waterskin, the bandit grasped the hand on his chest, pulled Lucius closer to him until the mage was straddling the Orlesian rogue. Cullen could now only see the mage's back but he saw how the apostate arched with a gentle gasp, whatever the bandit had done eliciting a sound from the Tevinter that made the templar's blood boil.

 

“Andraste's tits, get a room,” one of the other bandits complained.

 

Cullen had never disagreed so vehemently with anything.

 

“ _Tu me rends fou,_ ” Claude growled.

 

Cullen had no idea what that meant but he was certain he also had reason to dislike it.

 

“ _Ensuite, prends-moi_ ,” Lucius moaned, and, Maker, did he have to move like _that_ in front of Cullen? “ _J'ai envie de toi.”_

 

“ _La langue d'Orlais? Un homme tout_ _à_ _fait selon mon coeur_ ,” Claude said, kissing Lucius' neck.

 

“Seriously, Claude? Can't you take 'im by the trees and be done with it?” the elf said, making a disgusted face.

 

“Or not. We should head out soon. No telling when the patrol's coming by this way again,” the other bandit said.

 

Cullen had forgotten about the nightly patrols, though he had been taught better than to rely on them. Issued by King Cailan to improve safety for travelers, all of the main roads in Fereldan had soldiers stationed every few miles to offer limited protection from bandits. They were mostly ineffective, as would-be thieves were clever enough to attack when they knew they could evade notice.

 

It may not help Cullen now but worse case scenario, he could try calling for them to untie him later, if he should hear them passing by.

 

“There goes my fun,” Lucius said, sighing remorsefully.

 

He went to stand up, only to be pulled down once more into Claude's arms. The bandit held him tight, smirking wolfishly at his prize. “You could come with us to Denerim. And I can promise you proper _accomodations_ for the many things I'd like to do to you.”

 

And he proceeded to whisper once more in Lucius' ear, no doubt, those many things he did want to do to him.

 

Lucius chuckled, cupping the bandit's face and leaning in to kiss him softly. Cullen, unable to bear any more of the affection they exchanged, looked down at his feet, slumping against the tree.

 

Of course Lucius would like Claude. Claude hadn't captured him and dragged him halfway across the country against his will. And while the mage had toyed and flirted with the templar, he did it out of survival and not out of genuine interest.

 

Cullen was a fool for falling for a mage. He was an even bigger fool for wanting anything to ever come of such an unequal attraction.

 

“I may just have to take you up on your offer,” Lucius purred.

 

The bandit leader grinned, standing up and pulling Lucius up with him. “Consider yourself a part of our merry band. Sevannah and Ridge, gather the loot.”

 

As the bandits went to retrieve all of the supplies, something in Cullen snapped. So far, he had been passive in all of this, playing along because he knew that it was hopeless to fight a losing battle. But so help him, this was not what he trained for. He was a templar! He had spent years honing his body to be a weapon. He would not go down without a fight.

 

He struggled against the rope tying him to the tree, hoping there would be some weak point to snap the tether. But all it did was burn into the parts of his skin that were exposed and he hissed out in pain.

 

“ _Vashedan,_ I said don't move,” the Tal-Vashoth said.

 

“So help me, once I get free, I will hunt every corner of Thedas until I find each and every one of you for what you have done,” Cullen said, glaring at all of his captors. “This offense against the templar order will not go unpunished.”

 

Claude let go of Lucius, glancing with amusement at the templar. “Oh? And what offense is that?”

 

“For aiding and abetting an apostate, you are guilty of not only crimes against the Crown but also against the Maker.”

 

The apostate glared murderously at the templar. “Really, now? Are you in any position to be making threats? Perhaps you should _silence your tongue_ and let us be _on our way_.”

 

Lucius made some sort of gesture but the young, brash templar had no patience to decipher what the mage could mean by it. At this point, Cullen had had enough of taking the coward's way out. If he was to die, he would do so doing what he had been trained to do.

 

Claude seemed to ponder quite seriously on the threat he was being issued. “And you would see us _punished?_ ”

 

“As Andraste is my witness.”

 

“ _Venhedis_ , will you stop talking, you fool!” the mage said.

 

The look the apostate was giving him now was practically screaming for Cullen to _stand down_. But the templar scowled back, not heeding any of the silent warnings the mage was casting his way.

 

A strange look came over the bandit leader's face as he glanced from the templar to the mage.

 

“...for someone who was captive, you seem a bit too... _fond_ of your captor.”

 

“Fond?” Lucius said, with a cold laugh. “Hardly. I just see no reason why any of us should entertain his empty threats. Let the fool scream all night at the trees. You and I, though...I believe there were promises involving that lovely tongue of yours...”

 

He tried reaching for Claude, only to have the bandit grab his arm and pull him roughly towards the thief's chest. From out of nowhere, a blade appeared in the bandit's other hand and was now pressed against the skin of Lucius' throat.

 

Something flared in Cullen and he struggled harder against the binds, the rope rubbing raw into his wrists.

 

“I don't know what you're playing at, _mage,_ ” the bandit said, his tone as sweet as honey but as sharp as nettle, “And such a shame, too, because I would have loved to have you. Repeatedly.”

 

“And you still can!” the apostate said, voice smooth, unfazed by the danger he found himself in. “But if you kill that templar, they'll think _I_ did it and I would much rather avoid having ' _murder_ ' be one of my charges should the templars ever find me again.”

 

Claude's eyes narrowed as he considered the mage's words, beginning to draw the knife away from the apostate's throat . “...I suppose that's—”

 

“Harm him and I will kill every one of you with the wrath of the Maker!”

 

Lucius cursed quite loudly.

 

“Boss?” the Tal-Vashoth grunted.

 

“On second thought, I'd had enough of this. Dirk? Kill the templar.”

 

Cullen's eyes widened as he saw the Tal-Vashoth unsheath the large dagger he carried with him.

 

“Cullen, duck!”

 

As Lucius gave the command, Cullen immediately ducked his head to the side, feeling heat singe by his face. He heard the kossith shout out but his more immediate concern was the arrow the elf had nocked in her bow, aimed at the mage's back. The apostate was already distracted by Claude's assault, only barely managing to dodge as the thief swiped his blade towards the Tevinter's chest.

 

“Behind you!” Cullen shouted.

 

The mage shifted sideways as the arrow left her bow, narrowly missing embedding itself in the apostate's neck but its edge still catching his skin, slicing a thin line as it grazed past him. It was enough that Claude was able to step into the mage's space and grab him by the collar of his shirt.

 

“Enough!”

 

The mage cried out as he was pulled down to his knees, blood dripping from the wound on his neck, soaking into the dark leather neckline of his shirt. Claude's blade now firmly danced along the apostate's jawline, as if caressing Lucius' skin in a gesture that made Cullen struggle harder until he was certain his wrists must have been bleeding. The bandit chuckled gleefully down at his captive and with sinking dread, Cullen knew exactly what the man intended.

 

_He's going to kill him._

 

And none of this would have ever happened if the templar had been keeping watch instead of bickering childishly with the mage.

 

“I must admit I'm disappointed,” Claude sighed, drawing blood as his blade flicked against the mage's neck. “We could have had so much fun together. Unfortunately, you're more trouble than you're worth.”

 

“Then I offer my sincerest apologies,” the apostate said, tone light even as blood trickled down his neck, “not only for our _missed connection_ but also because I was _dead serious_ when I said I have an appreciation for the dramatic.”

 

And much to everyone's surprise, the mage fainted, collapsing backwards to the ground in a lifeless heap.

 

At first, Cullen thought the bandit must have done something and feared the worst. Perhaps the arrow was poisoned? What if Lucius was dead?

 

But seeing the perplexed look on the bandit leader's face, he was just as confused about this odd turn of events as the templar was.

 

“What in the—!”

 

Cullen jumped within his bindings as a spirit, bearing an uncanny resemblance to the mage, emerged from the apostate's body. Claude cried out in surprise, falling backwards and dropping his dagger. Even the qunari seemed unsettled as he swore in qunlat, backing away towards the edge of the campsite. But whatever it was that the mage must have summoned, it was unrelenting in its attack. The spirit's hands sparked with elemental energy and immediately began tossing small balls of fire at each of the bandits.

 

“ _Merde!_ ” Claude shouted, rolling out of the way and scrambling to his feet.

 

Sevannah fired an arrow but it passed seamlessly through the apparition and embedded itself in a nearby tree.

 

“Uh...boss?!”

 

“Retreat, dammit!” the bandit leader yelled, a fireball singing his leather trousers as he dodged a blast. “Forget the gear!”

 

Cullen watched in amazement as the spirit followed the retreating bandits through the trees, their shouts and cries fading off in the distance. But once everything grew quiet, the sound of crickets and the crackling fire the only noise to pierce the air, his golden eyes were once more drawn to the figure that remained crumpled on the forest floor.

 

_Lucius..._

 

He couldn't be certain what the mage had done, as necromancy was a rare school of magic with few known practitioners outside of the Mortalitasi in Nevarra. He had never seen such magic at the Fereldan Circle as its practice was forbidden there, but now he couldn't help but wonder if the apostate was going to be okay.

 

He was startled from his thoughts when the apparition returned seconds later, gliding from the trees to hover near the fallen mage. The spirit knelt down and the templar watched as it folded itself into a similar position, passing into the mage's prone form. After what felt like an agonizingly long minute, the mage gasped awake, groaning as got up onto his knees.

 

“Lucius!”

 

With an annoyed huff, the mage said, “As if I'd give my real name to a bunch of thieves!”

 

Standing on shaking legs, the apostate rubbed at his neck, looking dismayed when his hand drew blood. He mumbled something under his breath and made his way to the satchels, some yards from the fire.

 

“Then what is your name?”

 

But the mage paid Cullen no heed as he rifled through Jansen's things.

 

“Mage!”

 

Much to his dismay, he noticed the old, weathered lyrium kit in the apostate's hands and watched helplessly as the mage began pocketing all the full vials inside.

 

“That's Jansen's! You can't—!”

 

But the apostate had already uncorked one of the vials and drained it, undoubtedly filling the pool of mana he had just expended. Dropping the glass container to the ground, he once again began going through Jansen's things. “Your _friend_ has nearly consumed all of my lyrium in the last few days. It's only fair I take his.”

 

Finding the vial he had been seeking— _his blood_ , Cullen realized—the mage dropped his would-be phylactery into his own satchel and gathered the remainder of the food, barely even a meal's ration. It took a moment for the templar to realize what was happening, the current predicament he found himself in:

 

He was still bound to a tree. The mage, on the other hand, was now _free_ and collecting whatever he could find because...

 

“You're leaving!”

 

“Oh my, what gave me away? Was it the satchel or my constant objection to being dragged to your damned Circle?”

 

“You can't—you're not supposed to—”

 

But his blustering had no effect on the mage.

 

“I'll do whatever I damn well please, Cullen Rutherford.”

 

“If you attempt to leave, I will have no choice but to smite you!”

 

His voice hard, Cullen stopped shifting, giving up on trying to break the rope. The last hour had proven fruitless and all he had now were vicious burns on his arms.

 

Instead, he fixed the mage with a look to show just how serious he was. And maybe, for the first time in their brief time together, the apostate believed him enough that he _hesitated._ His stormy eyes glanced to the trees beyond the copse, to his freedom, and then back to the bound templar.

 

“You...” he said, slowly, taking a cautious step towards Cullen.

 

“...will...”

 

The fire crackled dangerously behind the mage, drawing dark shadows across his handsome face.

 

“...smite...”

 

A twig that snapped beneath the apostate's boot nearly made the templar flinch at the unexpected sound.

 

“...me?”

 

And Maker help him, the wicked glint in the mage's eyes made him look every bit as terrifying as a supposed _evil magister_ should be. But it was the hint of a smirk, the smell of spice mixed with the lyrium on the mage's breath, as he leaned in close, lips brushing against Cullen's ear, that had the templar feeling that same, overpowering draw that made him weak for the necromancer, had blood pooling to places below his waist. He shivered as the mage whispered, quite seductively, the challenge that would be his undoing.

 

“Then, do your worst.”

 

And the mage drew back, taking with him that _heat_ that had Cullen nearly bemoaning the loss of the apostate's presence, moving sluggishly against the binds that kept him trapped against the tree.

 

This was it. His chance to prove he was a templar, first and foremost, before his personal feelings.

 

The mage folded his arms and waited.

 

And waited.

 

And waited.

 

And when the supposed smite never came, he smirked victoriously.

 

“That is precisely what I thought. I bid you a good life, Templar Rutherford.”

 

As he turned swiftly on his heels to leave, Cullen felt a surge of desperation to make the mage see reason.

 

“W-wait! You can't leave me here!”

 

The apostate had only made it a few yards before he stopped. Turning back to his captor-turned-captive,

 

“You've had absolutely no qualms about keeping me bound like some pet beast during my capture. In fact, I believe I've seen mabari given more freedom to wander and piss about as they please. So why exactly should I care about your current predicament?”

 

Cullen colored at that, his response sounding meek even as it spilled off his lips. “It's...not fair? I—I tried to help you.”

 

“Fair?” the mage snapped. “You really want to have another argument about what's _fair?_ Then, let me enlighten you: fair would have been you keeping your fool mouth shut while I convinced those bandits to let you live. But evidently, I'd been captured by an imbecile with the impulse control of a disobedient child. _Fasta vass,_ you realize your stupidity nearly got both of us killed?!”

 

“I—”

 

His retort was silenced by the angry look on the mage's face.

 

Right. Rhetorical questions.

 

He really needed to work on not answering those.

 

“...I thought they were going to hurt you,” Cullen admitted, quietly.

 

The mage swore under his breath, looking away from the templar, a telltale crack in words uttered so quietly, Cullen wouldn't have been able to catch them even if he had any knowledge of Tevene.

 

“I thought you said I wasn't worth saving,” the mage said, not without accusation.

 

“I said 'some people'. Not you,” Cullen mumbled, though he was well-aware that the _you_ had very much been implied.

 

It was the closest he'd give to an apology for having assumed the worst about someone simply because of his own willful ignorance.

 

The tone in which the mage replied was so vicious, it made even the templar flinch. “You stupid, stupid, infuriatingly foolish man!”

 

And the distance that the apostate had made was being closed as he stormed over to where Cullen was bound, anger in his eyes and a scowl on his devastatingly handsome face. The templar was certain he was at least deserving of whatever fury the mage intended to unleash, perhaps more snide comments on his lack of intelligence or a swift slap across the face for having spewed empty threats that, really, hadn't helped their situation in the least.

 

What he hadn't been expecting was the mage to grab him roughly by his cheeks, smashing his soft lips to the templar's that were rough from his healing scar, and kiss him so breathlessly and thoroughly, Cullen would be remembering it for years to come.

 

A sound of surprise died at the back of his throat, his inexperienced lips sliding against a pair so practiced, they left him heady and dizzy, his heart thudding so loudly, he was certain it was powerful enough to drown the crackling of the fire behind them. When the mage's tongue pressed to seek entry, the templar offered no resistance, groaning at the lingering taste of lyrium, as it slid wet and languidly against his own. He resisted only weakly against the rope that bound him because, Maker help him, he wanted to _touch_ more of the mage, press himself closer, feel the apostate's lean frame against him.

 

The mage must have had some inkling of what Cullen wanted because he moved closer to the templar, a gasp on his lips as he felt the effect he was having on Cullen, whose lack of armor left him in only thin trousers. Hard and aching, he tried to rut against the mage's hip because he needed more of that delicious friction, but found his movement still woefully limited.

 

Breaking off the kiss, the mage sighed softly, pressing his forehead to Cullen's.

 

“You stupid, stupid man,” he said, voice gentle and filled with affection.

 

His breath was a shudder against Cullen's cheek and though the templar knew his face was probably red, as bashful as he was hard, he felt a sudden boldness to claim those lips again.

 

Unfortunately, at this angle, he only managed to kiss the corner of the mage's mouth, a feather light kiss laced with shy affection, that seemed to take the apostate by surprise. The mage pulled away sharply, gray eyes wide and vulnerable, and regarded the templar with a look that Cullen, for the life of him, could not figure out.

 

“...are you going to untie me?” he asked, hopefully.

 

Whatever had come over the mage had quickly dissipated, a smirk now on his lips. “I much rather prefer seeing you _tied up_ like this. We'll need to try this again sometime. Perhaps in a more... _intimate_ setting.”

 

“Maker's breath!” Cullen gasped, face going a violent shade of red at the mage's forwardness.

 

Even worse, he found he wasn't opposed to such a proposition.

 

“Well, Cullen, it has been lovely,” the mage said, trailing a hand down the templar's chest. He teasingly hooked his fingers in the hem of Cullen's trousers, eliciting a frustrated groan from the bound Fereldan. “ _Quite_ lovely. But I'm afraid I must take my leave before your companion returns. I don't desire having to explain...this _state_ I've put you in.”

 

Cullen moaned loudly when the mage grasped his erection through his trousers. It felt...Maker, it felt amazing! And yet, his selfish, greedy body wanted closer contact, wanted to feel flesh-on-flesh, Chantry teachings on such lustful avarice be damned.

 

All too soon, he was left absent of that limited contact, the mage pulling away with a satisfied chuckle. Cullen was sure he had something of a pout on his face even as he tried to school his expression into something less pathetic. But so help him, he was under whatever spell the apostate had cast on him and nothing seemed worse than having to watch this beautiful man walk away from him.

 

“I don't even know your name,” Cullen whispered.

 

The mage leaned in once more, his lips all but brushing against the templar's.

 

“Dorian,” he whispered, like a breathy gasp, as soft as a gentle breeze on a midsummer's day.

 

“Dorian,” Cullen found himself saying, liking the way the mage's name spilled off his scarred lip.

 

The mage—Dorian—reached up to trace his thumb over the still healing cut on Cullen's lip. There was something odd about the way his gray eyes flickered over the marking but, like most of the Tevinter's character, it only mystified and continued to elude the templar.

 

“Until next time, Cullen.”

 

“Next time?”

 

The mage quirked his brow. “ _If_ you can find me.”

 

And then, he was gone.

 

For a long while, Cullen looked to the flames crackling in front of him, tongue tracing over his lips, pulse racing as he recalled the kiss they had shared. More than once, he found himself grinning at nothing in particular, the mage's inferred promise enough to put him in such a giddy state.

 

_We'll need to do this again sometime._

 

And by Andraste, he intended on seeing that to fulfillment.

 

Eventually, though, as the night wore on, Cullen became all too aware of how uncomfortable he had gotten as he remained standing and bound to the tree. And once his discomfort became too hard to ignore, reality crashed down hard on him:

 

He was tied to a tree. The apostate was gone. And most of their supplies, including their only means to relocate the mage, had been taken by said apostate.

 

With a groan, Cullen's head fell back against the tree, knocking some much needed sense into him.

 

Jansen was going to kill him.

 

**Author's Note:**

> A few things about this AU and the abilities used by the characters:
> 
> Smite is only effective against magic-users in this verse. It requires that the templar has their own pool of mana (i.e. through lyrium consumption) in order to activate. Any other effects that are game-canon are ignored.
> 
> Horror is treated as a purely defensive spell that does no damage. For anyone who has played Skyrim, it resembles the fear spell: it creates spirit-based illusions and if the victim fails to mentally resist, they may panic and flee.
> 
> Simulacrum can be activated at any point by the necromancer but is a highly draining spell. The necromancer separates their 'soul' from their body by drawing a spirit from the Fade to fight on their behalf. Unfortunately, the necromancer is knocked unconscious because of the high mental focus required to keep this spell going. They cannot be revived until their 'soul' is reunited with their physical form.
> 
> Dorian is treated as a BAMF necromancer in this verse, with a secondary focus on pyromancy. For as much flack as the necromancy school gets in DA:I (it really makes companions like Dorian a glass cannon if you don't have your warrior properly tanking), I personally love it and really enjoyed incorporating his in-game abilities in this fic :).


End file.
